


Fic: Five Times He Left

by ScoutLover



Category: Leverage
Genre: Character Study, Dark Past, Gen, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot's been slipping away into the shadows for years … until they gave him a reason to stay</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic: Five Times He Left

_**One**_

He’d been fighting with Daddy from the time he learned to talk, the two going head-to-head with equal stubbornness and fire, neither able to bend or budge. He loved his family, and respected the hell out of Daddy, but he needed more than a life in this small town, and the near certainty of a future stuck down in the mines, needed to find his own way, his own place, in a world where he wasn’t tethered by everybody else’s expectations.

Mama hoped he’d go to college, but that just sounded like another kind of confinement to him. Besides, he knew they didn’t really have the money for a good one, and he didn’t exactly have the grades. He wasn’t stupid by any means, was, in fact, a lot brighter than most folks gave  him credit for. He was just restless, impatient and easily bored, and eager to get the hell out of _here_ .

Then, late one fall afternoon, the decision was made for him. He and the team were on the football field, practicing for Friday’s game. They had a good shot at state this year, had missed it by only one game last year, and, in just his junior year, he was already gaining notice as a quarterback to watch; a little small, maybe, but smart and scrappy. Mama started dreaming of college again, now with the possibility of scholarships.

Until the alarms blared.

Everybody in town knew what those alarms meant; the sound was written into their collective DNA. The mine. An explosion, fire, cave-in or some other disaster. Rich, fat owners scrambling to cover their asses while men lived and died hundreds of feet below the earth.

This time it was Daddy’s mine.

Daddy’s crew.

And no survivors.

They won state that year, and dedicated the trophy to the men who’d died in that mine, five of whom had sons on the team. And Eliot, who played the rest of the season like demons were chasing him, made the All State team. But all thoughts of college disappeared. He was the man of the house now, and he knew what he had to do.

He went to see the local Army recruiter, who was known to bend the regs when he had a quota to meet.

He lied about his age, forged Mama’s signature on the papers, and paid one of the local nerds to take the GED for him. He got his orders for bootcamp the day of the spring prom.

Mama and his sister stood by and watched as he packed, Daddy a silent ghost in that room. He only took one bag, figured he wouldn’t need more, but in it he put photos of his parents and sister, the pocket knife that had been his grandfather’s as a boy, and a silver bracelet that had been his grandmother’s. Mama and Emmy drove him to the bus station and sat with him until the bus came, then, when it came time to board, wished him goodbye, Mama hugging him so tight he thought she might leave bruises and crying softly into his neck. Emmy was tearful, too, but she understood. They needed the money, and he needed _out_ .

Then young Eliot Spencer, not yet seventeen years old, got on the bus that would take him to bootcamp, the first step in a long and often ugly journey that would take him so far from Mama and Emmy and Daddy’s grave and all he’d known with them that, in his darkest hours, he’d wonder if they ever really existed at all. And over the years he developed a painful understanding of the words, “You can’t go home again.”

_**Two**_

The Army was like nothing he’d ever known and more than he’d ever hoped. He found himself there, discovered talents he didn’t know he possessed and honed them into arts. He found a purpose, found discipline, found a family that understood him. He could gladly have spent the rest of his life in those ranks.

Except that it wasn’t to be. By the age of twenty-six, and as a member of Delta Force, he was a veteran of some of the worst hell-holes the world had to offer. He saw men, once good men, stained and corrupted by those hell-holes, and more than once had to barter away a little piece of himself just to survive. But when his unit was used as a tool of that corruption, when it was hijacked by _his own government_ to protect evil men he knew deserved to die, it was too much. The short but brutal firefight never made the papers or evening news, would never make the history books, would never be known outside whatever secure file it was locked inside. And his own memory.

While he was recovering in an unmarked wing of a military hospital, men in uniforms and in suits came to him, offering bribes, deals and, eventually, threats. When he wouldn’t budge – he was Daddy’s boy, after all – they simply erased him from the Army’s files. But when they came to erase _him_ , that was it. He left the poor bastards laid out on the floor of his room, their guns emptied around them.

And Eliot Spencer slipped away into the night.

_**Three**_

He wasn’t sure exactly when he fell in love with Aimee Martin. He met her through her brother, one of his platoon mates in Airborne training at Fort Campbell, and sparks flew between them almost immediately. Gradually, he started using his weekend passes and leave time to visit the Martins at their farm instead of his own family, drawn by the beautiful horses Willie raised and, of course, by Aimee. She was smart, beautiful, spirited … and every bit as stubborn as he. They fought as much as they loved.

Through his years in the Army, he always waited for the letter that would tell him she’d met someone else, someone closer to home, someone safer. The letter never came. After the Army, he returned to the Martin farm, needing healing for his soul as much as for his body. He found both in Aimee’s arms.

But he couldn’t stay at Willie’s anymore than he could back home. The talents he’d perfected in the Army weren’t needed by decent people like the Martins, and he had few others to offer. Time and again he was drawn away by bigger and better jobs, jobs that paid more, jobs that demanded a very specialized set of skills. It wasn’t the life he’d thought he’d have back when he first boarded that bus, but it was the life he’d made for himself and, so long as he could always come back to Aimee, it was about as good as he thought he could have.

But then he didn’t come back. Not for months, and not through any fault of his own. The job had gone bad – how in the hell was he supposed to know that a fuckin’ _monkey_ statue would land him in so much trouble? – and he’d ended up in some God-awful North Korean prison with guards who enjoyed their work a little too much. By the time he’d managed to escape, heal and get back home, he’d been gone for almost a year, and Aimee had moved on. When he called the ranch and asked for her, Willie told him she was engaged.

He was tempted to stay and fight for her, tell her everything that had happened, everything that he was, and make her choose between him and the guy she was marrying. But he knew it wouldn’t be fair. He was past changing who he was, had long ago missed his chance at a “normal” life. And Aimee deserved something more solid than a retrieval specialist who would most likely die in some God-forsaken hell-hole half a world away.

He did turn up at the Martin farm the night of the wedding, though he made certain Aimee never saw him. He watched her with her new husband, hoped to hell the bastard knew the priceless treasure he was getting, and ached for all he’d never have.

Then he turned and walked away into the shadows, little more than a shadow himself.

_**Four**_

He met Damien Moreau in Belgrade, and something clicked between them almost immediately. He was smart, tough, and already had a reputation for being the best at what he did and not overly burdened by scruples. Moreau was even smarter, tougher, determined to make the world _his_ and utterly uncaring how that happened.

It was a match made well south of heaven.

_Belgrade_ meant “white city,” but it had a darkness where men like him and Moreau thrived. Still clearing away the rubble left by NATO bombs and reeling from the overthrow of Milosevic, struggling to find its way through the upheaval of unfamiliar “democracy” and crowded by refugees from other war-torn Balkan countries, the “white city” was a seething mess of confusion, corruption, religious and ethnic hostilities, and men – like him and Moreau – all too willing to capitalize on the turmoil.

He began as a freelancer for Moreau, a contract operator with contacts and clients – and skills – useful to Damien’s burgeoning operation. But as Damien called on him more and more often, and as they both profited increasingly from their collaboration, he gradually found himself working almost exclusively for the man, though Damien, always knowing how best to handle his “people,” allowed him more independence than any other “employee.”

The best way to keep a wild animal content in its cage was to make that cage invisible.

But he was just too good at what he did for Damien _not_ to use him to his fullest. He was the best and most efficient weapon in Damien’s considerable arsenal, could operate as either blunt fist or scalpel, had a mind for both strategy _and_ tactics, could both spot a weakness and exploit it. When Damien Moreau needed a point made, Eliot Spencer was the man to make it.

But it all got to be too much, even for a man who’d somehow suffocated his conscience into dead silence.

In the end, it was that very silence that troubled him. Questions now and then were a good thing; they kept him honest. At least with himself. When he killed, he needed to be certain it was because he _had_ to, and not because he _wanted_ to. He needed to remember faces, voices, needed to remember his victims to remember why they’d had to _become_ victims.

And when he lost that, he knew he was losing himself. When he could sleep through entire nights, entire _weeks_ of nights, without a single face or voice troubling his dreams, when a well-aimed gun became his first and easiest recourse, when he no longer noticed the smell or feel of the blood on his hands, he knew he’d crossed a line. He was _too_ good at what he did, _too_ willing to do it, and it didn’t bother him at all. And that scared the shit out of him.

It was, strangely, the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, to look Damien in the eye and tell him he was leaving. He couldn’t help but feel he was betraying the man who’d given him so much, and to whom he’d grown so close. And he couldn’t help but see the regret, and surprise, in Damien’s eyes. No one _ever_ just walked out on Damien Moreau and lived to tell about it. Hell, he’d made sure of that a few times himself. But Damien let _him_ go. Maybe because he knew his secrets, his sins, were safe with Eliot, since those sins were Eliot’s as well. Or maybe just because Eliot had already taken care of anyone who might have been good enough to stop him. But for whatever reason, Damien smiled sadly, offered him one last drink, then drew him into an embrace and wished him well.

And once more Eliot Spencer slipped away.

_After_ he dismantled and buried his guns.

_**Five**_

He couldn’t decide which hurt more – the pain of his injuries, or of Sophie’s betrayal.

Damn it, he’d thought he’d _found_ something with these people, something he hadn’t had since Damian. Or Aimee. A home, a purpose, a _fam–_

_No._

He wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , let his mind go there. _That_ pain would be unbearable. He’d long ago given up any right to a family, any reason to believe he’d ever have such, and to let himself think otherwise, even for a moment, might well be the death of him. And while, at this point, death might be a relief, he wasn’t sure he had any right to _that_ either.

No, his punishment would be to go on living, to pick up the pieces as he’d always done and figure out where the fuck to go from here.

And, right now, the only answer he could manage was as far the hell away from _them_ as possible.

But … _where_ ?

He couldn’t go home. Hell, there _was_ no “home.” Mama was dead, buried alongside Daddy, the house had long ago been sold, and Emmy lived in Oklahoma with her son. He knew she’d welcome him, let him stay in the room above the garage while he healed up and ask no questions, but he couldn’t – wouldn’t – do that to her. He had no idea how hot he was, whether Sterling would push his little vendetta and loose the cops on them, and he wouldn’t put Emmy’s life, her peace, at risk.

She was all he had left, and the one sacrifice he refused to make. 

Kentucky, maybe … except that, now, Kentucky – Aimee – was tied to _them_ , his past brought into his present and the two hopelessly entwined. Aimee knew about _them_ , would ask about _them_ , would poke and prod as only she could, would see his wounds and rip off the scabs and make him face his weakness, make him admit why this – _they_ – hurt so much–

_They_ had ruined Kentucky for him.

Damien, then? He had no doubt he’d be welcome. They’d seen each other a few times over the years since he’d left, and he’d even done a few retrieval jobs for the man. The old fondness, the old ease and warmth, had still been there, and Damien had made clear that he could return to the fold at any time.

Except that he couldn’t. The thought of returning to what he’d been, what he knew he still was, of picking up a gun and _using_ it, made his stomach twist. The faces and screams had all returned, regularly haunted his dreams and ruined his sleep, and he knew he couldn’t do it any more. Not after a year of doing … _this_ . With _them_ . The conscience he’d thought he’d so mercifully killed had somehow come back to life, and now spoke to him in Nate’s voice. Women who once would have been no more than a means to an end now all seemed to have Sophie’s laugh, and the innocents he’d hurt for no other reason than that he’d needed to make a point all stared at him with Parker’s bewildered eyes. And when his sins rose again in his mind, red as blood, he could see Hardison staring at him in horror.

_They_ had ruined him for Moreau.

_They_ had become part of him … and, because of Sophie, that part, the part of him that had begun to live and breathe and bleed and _feel_ , had been ripped away. And he didn’t know what to do. Vertigo hit him in waves and his chest ached hideously, but he knew it _wasn’t_ the concussion and broken ribs from the fight with Quinn.

It was _them_ . The loss of them. A gaping hole inside _him_ where once _they’d_ been. The life he’d started to make for himself was gone – again – and he was hurt. Hurting. He needed to hole up somewhere, lick his wounds and try – again – to start over–

This time, he could swear he tasted tears as he ran.

**_And one time he didn’t_**

This time they didn’t scatter.

Their world was in ruins, again, brought down around their feet by Sterling. _Again._ Though this time with some truly fucked-up assistance from Nate, who’d forced them to leave him behind.

It was all gone. Again.

Except … it wasn’t.

When the helicopter set down on the small and isolated air strip, they all climbed out and immediately formed the little circle that had become so familiar, driven to seek comfort where once they would only have cared about safety. They’d been through this twice before already, and twice they’d all walked away from each other – once in defeat, once in victory, both times with more reluctance than they’d expected but driven apart by instincts they couldn’t resist. Now, though, they stood looking at each other, no one able, or even _tempted_ , to take the first step that would break them apart again.

And Eliot felt something in himself relax.

He hurt, Jesus _God_ he hurt; thirteen men was a helluva lot, even for him. Sophie’s eyes were red and swollen from crying, her makeup running, and Parker and Hardison both looked shell-shocked. They were _all_ confused, hurting, _angry_ , broken open and bleeding out and haunted by the knowledge that _Nate had done this to them_ –

But no one was running. Least of all _him_.

He swallowed past the taste of blood in his mouth and struggled to draw himself to his full height, biting back a groan as bruised and battered muscles protested and aching deep in what he once would have called his soul. He was tired, _so_ tired, but, as he swept his weary gaze over the three anguished faces before him, he knew he couldn’t yet rest. He’d lost Nate, had failed in his promise to have the man’s back all the way down, but _they_ were still here and _they_ still needed protecting. Still needed _him_.

And in that moment, he understood.

They were his. After a lifetime of running he’d finally found something worth staying and fighting for. It was all right here, with them, _in_ them, and he’d be damned if he’d let _anyone_ – Nate, Sterling, the FBI, or the forces of heaven and hell combined – take it from him. Take _them_ from him.

Or take him from them.

They were his and he was theirs and, goddamn it, he wasn’t going _anywhere_.

Eliot Spencer was finally home.

_The End_


End file.
